Be Ashamed to Die
by Tamen47
Summary: A brilliant young author is taken off his lifelong path of self-destruction and sent to the rehabilitation center Sunnydale Oaks. All-Human AU
1. I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning

**Be Ashamed to Die**

**By Tamen**

_**Chapter One: I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning**_

It was well into the day when Angel Giles rolled his 1967 Mercedes up to the familiar swanky LA apartment complex. He took the walk up to the door slowly with a bowed head and hands deep in his pockets; anxious apprehension carved into every line of his body.

The keys he retrieved never found purchase in the lock as the door opened to reveal an elderly black man on his way out. When the man's sagging eyes caught sight of the visitor on the steps, he cracked a big toothy grin.

"Well, hello there Angel."

The greeting was returned with a friendly smile of his own. "Hey Mr. Meyers. How're you today?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Just fine," he responded jovially. "Off to see your brother?"

Angel's smile waned visibly. He took hold of the door Mr. Meyers was holding before saying "Yeah . . . Just gonna check in on him . . . see how he's doing."

"Alright then. You tell him I say hello. Haven't seen that boy in the longest time." He looked at him pointedly.

Angel nodded distractedly. "Will do. Say hey to the missus for me." He turned from the departing wave the old man gave to enter the building and quickly jog up three flights of stairs. When he came to a stop at his final destination, he paused to catch his breath and calm his overtaxed heart that was pounding so for reasons other than physical exertion. He readied himself for any shock he could receive before using his key to let himself in.

The first step into the apartment was obstructed by a crumpled leather duster lying just beyond the threshold. Next to the coat was a glittering pink scrap of fabric that could have once passed for a woman's top before it was ripped from the wearer's body.

All things considered, the hastily discarded clothing really fit into the overall decor of the place. Jack Daniel's bottles of varying levels of emptiness stood from every surface available and the entire living room seemed to have been converted into a giant ashtray as cigarette butts dirtied 

the ground in a haphazard fashion. The walls had more than a few holes punched in and sported several dark stains where drinks appeared to have been hurled. The impressive bay windows were covered, leaving the entire space encompassed in a disturbing half-light.

Angel sighed heavily and followed the trail of jettisoned clothing down the hall to the master bedroom suite where the door remained fully open. He made his way into the room, careful to sidestep the numerous liquor bottles that littered the ground.

He shook his head with disgust at the two figures adorning the black satin sheets as he turned to pull back the drapes blocking out the day's light.

Immediately after the sun's rays infiltrated the darkened cave of a room, a high-pitched squeak sounded from the far side of the bed. A very pissed looking blonde popped her head up and blinked her mascara-smeared eyes. She viewed him with suspicion as her clutched the sheet to her naked chest.

"Who the hell are you?" she shrieked shrilly. Not even giving him a chance to reply, she began prodding the lump curled into a tangle of blankets. "Spikey, there's some guy here."

Said lump groaned in aggravation and shifted away from the bimbo's insistent probing. Clearly not taking the hint, the girl sat up on her knees to shake the shoulder of her male companion.

"Blondie bear, did you hear me? I said there's some guy here."

Angel grumbled in irritation. "William, get up."

Spike pulled the blankets from over his head and opened a single bloodshot eye to peer at the interloper. "The hell are you doing here, Peaches?" he asked in a raspy voice. "What fucking time is it?"

"It's half past noon, Spike."

"Who is he, baby?" the girl whined discordantly.

He groaned again and yanked the covers over his head. "Harm, get the fuck out."

The girl actually had enough sense to look affronted at his blatant dismissal. "But Blondie Bear . . . "

Spike lashed out by sitting up suddenly, the sheet covering his nude form pooling at his waist. Glaring at her firmly, he growled through gritted teeth "sod off, you bloody annoying chit."

The girl called Harm huffed audibly and flung herself off the bed, uncaring of her naked state. Angel averted his gaze quickly but still caught enough of a peek to suspect the girl's hair color came out of a bottle.

"You know what, Spikey? I'm tired of you being such a jerk to me," she complained as she searched the ground for her clothes. "One of these days, I might just not come back." Her dramatic statement had the air taken out of it a bit when she spotted her bra hanging from a lamp across the room and hustled to retrieve it.

Spike gave a deep-throated chuckle and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Believe me, nothing would bring me more pleasure."

The girl spared one last glance at Angel still shuffling awkwardly next to the window Spike who was preoccupied cradling his head before turning on her heel and exiting with her nose in the air, sporting only a miniskirt and bra.

Upon hearing her final shouted bitch about her ripped top and the subsequent vicious slam of the front door slam, Angel eyed his adopted brother with a narrow gaze. "Blondie Bear?"

"Quiet you," he muttered without looking up.

Angel chuckled sardonically. "No seriously though, she seems lovely."

Spike returned with a wry snort. "Harmony? Yeah, she's a peach."

Angel rolled his eyes and snatched a trash bag from behind the bathroom door. He began depositing the plethora of empty whiskey bottles from the floor. Spike crushed his hands to either side of his achingly hungover head at the sound of the glass banging together. The brunette paid no mind to Spike's duress.

"Look at it this way – maybe you pissed her off enough to keep her away."

Spike rolled over and fished a crumpled box of cigarettes out of the bedside table. Shaking his flaxen head sadly, he lit up and took a long drag. "Not this bird. She's off her bloody rocker. Give her a week and she'll be back making my life just a bit more miserable." He watched Angel make his way around the bed, scooping up bottles all the while. "You know, you don't have to do that."

"If I don't, who will? Where is your housekeeper anyway?" Spike looked down shamefacedly and started picking nervously at the bedspread.

"I uh . . . had to let her go."

Angel cast his eyes to the ceiling and let the plastic bag slide to the floor. "And why's that?" The only response he got was the ambiguous shrug of his shoulders.

He resumed the task of tidying up, grateful that the aroma of booze and cigarettes became less stifling as his nose grew accustomed to the stench. "And this Harmony girl, why don't you just 'let her go' as well?"

Spike took the opportunity of his brother's turned back to swing his legs over the bed and slide into a pair of black jeans. He swayed on his feet (still a tiny bit inebriated from the night before) as he did up the fly.

"Harm's a bit more persistent than all that. I couldn't get rid of her if I tried. And, being the right decent shag that she is, I'm in no hurry to try just yet." He watched as Angel continued his perusal around the room and quirked an eyebrow.

"You know," he began slowly. "As much as I appreciate you moonlighting as my maid for the day, I'm gonna bet that your little visit has a hidden motive or two."

Angel set the bulging bag on the ground, laying all false pretenses aside with it. Damn kid always did have a knack for seeing through him.

He thought of letting the whole idea go. He remembered for the millionth time that at some point, he couldn't protect him from everything; that it wasn't his life to lead.

But seeing him standing there looking for all he world like the little street urchin he once knew him as, he couldn't turn a blind eye. His eyes were reddened and sunken. His high, pronounced cheekbones were emphasized by his thinned cheeks, leaving dark hollows in their wake. Old scars decorating his torso were illuminated from the light of the window along with the outlines of his bones visible through his nearly transparent skin. He was gaunt; a shadow of what he once was and should be. Angel couldn't leave him like that.

"Spike . . . we have to talk."

TBC


	2. Calling the Calvary

_**Chapter Two: Calling the Cavalry**_

**One week earlier**

Buffy Summers was enjoying a very rare day off lounging on the hot sand of a beach. The soothing sounds of the waves were somewhat tempered by raucous yelps to her right. The deafening squeals were coming from one Xander Harris as his girlfriend Anya was finally able to tackle him to the ground after a very long, very exaggerated chase. Beyond them were Willow and Tara who busied themselves by strolling hand in hand along the shore. As usual, fifth wheel Buffy was left on the sidelines as her friends broke off into their respective couples. It always seemed that no matter how their little group outings began, they always ended up divided like that.

But it didn't bother her nearly as much as it once did.

She opened her eyes from behind her fashionably large sunglasses. It was mid-afternoon at that point. The picnic that came with the friends from Sunnydale was lying a few yards back as the sun hung in limbo between the horizon and the clear blue sky. Xander had finally quieted down which usually meant he and Anya had become preoccupied in each other.

She took the silence as an opportunity to become engrossed in the waves as they curled along the shore. The tranquility that settled over her was so encompassing that Buffy almost missed the faint sound of her cell phone ringing not a foot from her head.

Rolling her eyes at the disturbance in her reverie, she answered the annoyance with a falsely chipper "Hello?".

"Buffy?"

Immediately, her irritation all but left her as a slow smile spread across her lightly tanned face. "Hey Angel."

There was once a time when even the mention of her ex's name would result in an erratic heartbeat and sweaty palms. Now, her stomach barely flopped. _'Baby steps,'_ she thought cynically.

"I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?,"he asked casually. They really were improving at the whole _friendship_ thing. Their infrequent telephone chats served as a far cry from the years following their breakup where they never even spoke.

"Not at all. In fact, I'm taking the day off with the gang. We've been hanging out at the beach."

He gave a weary chuckle. "And this is the first vacation in how long?"

Buffy sighed. "Yeah, a while." Not really caring to go down that road of conversation, she changed the subject abruptly. "But hey – how's Cordelia doing? What is she . . . seven months along now?"

The grin that filled his voice at the mention of his wife of two years and Buffy's high school nemesis-turned friend was evident as he proceeded into gushing detail about his developing family. "Oh, she's been counting down the nine weeks until she's due obsessively. Apparently the maternity clothes aren't up to her standards. Other than that, she's great."

Buffy was smiling at the obvious love in his tone and damn proud of herself for being genuinely happy for the pair of them. Ignoring the slight twinge of jealousy that flared through her, she said softly "You'll have to give her my love."

"I will." The pause that followed his statement was wrought with hesitation and immediately had her on alert. "Now, Buffy . . . the reason I called is . . . I need a bit of a favor. A bit of a big favor, actually."

She settled back against the sand as her face shifted to show her piqued curiosity. "Oh?"

"Yeah, um . . ." He seemed to struggle with how to continue. "It's about my brother William."

Buffy's interest grew further. Years ago, Angel would speak of his young adopted brother with a fondness and pride that was usually so unlike him back then that it couldn't help but stick out in her memory. She had never met the boy but was well-versed in his antics based on several stories from the oldest Giles boy. "What about him?"

"Well . . ." he began tentatively. "He seems to have found himself in some . . . trouble."

Buffy's eyebrow quirked. "What kind of trouble?"

He sighed heavily into the phone. In her mind's eye, she could picture him pinching his brow in frustration as he was prone to doing. "The kind that motivates me to make a call to my good friend in the rehabilitation profession."

She smiled and allowed herself to slip into business mode. "Tell me about it."

"You know Will's always had a hard life. I guess it started with that horrible mother he had before he lived with us doing everything she could to screw him up, you can hardly blame him for letting some of that stick."

Buffy nodded to herself. "You've mentioned his previous abusive home life before. It's possible that any problems he may have now stem from those experiences."

"Yeah, but you have to realize that even despite that shitty beginning, he's accomplished so much." His tone took on a doting quality as he launched into details. "He was number one in his high school class. He got a scholarship to Oxford and graduated with honors for Christ's sake. 

He's got several publishers interested in him . . . even a little Pulitzer buzz around some of his writings. I mean . . . the kid's amazing, Buffy."

"He sounds like it," she murmured softly.

"He is . . . regardless of that Drusilla woman bringing him down."

"Is this about her then?"

"Isn't it always?," he asked mirthlessly. This seemed to be a common theme in all the discussions she'd had regarding William.

William Rayne and Drusilla Curtis had been involved for years. Apparently he had been sixteen when they met (she was well into her twenties at the time). Her impact on him manifested itself in the form of a punkish makeover that resulted in changes from his appearance to his demeanor. In spite of how different he had become, Angel always insisted that newly dubbed _'Spike' _was still his little brother at heart.

"She's dead, by the way," he said suddenly, almost offhandedly.

"What?," Buffy asked surprisedly. The segue was poorly executed and left her a bit startled at the sudden change in subject. Her friends were starting to make their way back to the original site as the sun descended low over the horizon.

"A few weeks ago. She had a heroin overdose."

"Jesus, Angel."

"Yeah. And bad news that she was, Drusilla was Spike's world. She wasn't particularly good to him or anyone for that matter but that hardly seemed to matter. He worshiped her."

"I see . . . I suppose he's not taking it well." She motioned to her phone as Xander loudly asked if she wanted a s'more.

"In a word, no." His voice was dark and morose. "Not at all. He's been binging like crazy, and drunk at all hours of the day. He's taking stupid risks that make me think that he doesn't really care if he lives or dies. I'm sure I haven't seen the worst of it and I barely recognize him anymore."

"So what are you wanting to do?"

"I want to help him. I want you to help me help him."

"In Sunnydale Oaks?"

His nerves were back in his voice again. "Yes . . . but I want _you_ to be the one who works with him."

Buffy soughed. "That might not be the best idea. You know I've only been in counseling for two years. But I work with some great psychiatrists I could refer him to."

"I'm sure they are," he said wearily. "And this may be too much to ask from you, but I'm doing it anyway. I want to be able to know that he's got only the best working for him."

She snorted at that. "Going for flattery, huh? You should realize that there is more to it, though. For me to work with him could be considered a conflict of interest." She shook her head politely as Tara offered a half-burned marshmallow concoction.

He made an incredulous noise. "Only if you're being literal to the tenth degree. You've never even met him. And if you're trying to help him, it's hardly a _'conflict'_ in your interests."

"But I know you. And I know your mom and dad. I have previous knowledge of him and his behaviors outside of any medical or legal records that I could be privy to – "

He cut her off. "Buffy, I trust you. I have to know that someone I trust is looking out for my kid brother, and I would prefer that to be you. If you really can't do this for me, for whatever reason, that's fine. But please . . . do this for me."

Buffy was silent for a moment.

It wasn't really that big a problem that she knew her potential client's family; she just didn't want to be in the position where Angel was relying on her to cure his brother. She was a good therapist – if only a little inexperienced – but it wasn't something that she was confident enough to gamble the feelings of someone she cared about on. Hearing him all but beg her, though . . .

"I'll do it."

". . . thank you."

She nodded absently. "Yeah, don't mention it. Do you need an interventionist?"

"No, I'm not going to have an intervention."

She stood to follow her friends as they packed up the picnic and made their way back to Anya's SUV. Wincing, she said with concern "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"I can get him to agree to come," he said dismissively.

"Angel . . ."

"Trust me, he'll do it."

"An intervention will yield better results."

"I can't give him an ultimatum. I already know that. My way will work better, just trust me on this."

She shook her head skeptically but conceded the point. "Whatever you say."

"I'm gonna track him down sometime this week so will that be enough time for you to prepare his case?"

"Yeah, no problem. I'll get on it right away."

"Okay. Thanks again, so much Buffy. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

"You're welcome. I'll do my best. I gotta go now but say hey to Cordy for me, alright?"

"Yeah. Goodbye."

"Bye."

She shut her phone as she climbed into the backseat next to Willow. Xander turned around in the passenger seat, still giggling from a joke Anya told. "So, how was your day off, Buffster?"

"It was great," she said with a bit of deceptive cheeriness. While the rest of them stuck up some more friendly banter, she turned to stare out the window. Very softly, she mumbled "really great."

TBC

**Author's Note: **Once again, thanks for all the reviews. They brightened up my day.


	3. The Old Year

**Chapter 3: The Old Year**

"Spike. . . We have to talk."

The words were deliberate. Angel never used his newfound moniker, finding it much more patronizing to address him as though he were the same ten-year-old kid the Giles family had to take in so long ago.

Spike knew what it really was; a desperate attempt to save a person already long dead.

_If he only knew._

"Right then," Spike quipped jovially, trying not to wince as his own voice reverberated around in his head. "Whatever shall we chat about?"

He spun around -- rather, he staggered sloppily -- and found a dirty black tee to drag over his head. He fought another round of nausea. Luckily for him, he could not rightly remember the last time he ate, so he was able to turn back to his adopted brother with composure nearly intact.

Angel lifted a brow and pressed his mouth into a hard line. He scrutinized Spike's movements as he tried to feign nonchalance with another puff off his cigarette. He tried to control his shaking hands, as well as the involuntary tremors coursing through his body.

He needed a drink.

Angel smiled sadly and looked directly into Spike's eyes from across the room. "You can't live like this." he murmured.

Spike smirked.

"And why in the hell not?" he asked with good humor. "Haven't you ever heard of Hemingway? Bukowski? This is how my kind _thrive_, Peaches. And, I might add, I'm doing it in far more style than they did." He gestured ridiculously around the trashed, albeit once posh, surroundings.

"Didn't you used to call Hemingway a 'wanker'?" Angel questioned, playing along.

"Well yeah. A bloody overrated wanker at that. Doesn't mean he didn't have his moments."

Angel chuckled and finally broke his unrelenting stare to take in the damage around him. "This place is a shithole."

"Aye, this is my home you're talking about," Spike laughed, walking into the spacious master bathroom to relieve his bladder. He could hear rummaging as Angel resumed his efforts to clean the sty. Spike fought the urge to shout back for him not to toss out any perfectly good liquor. There wasn't any left in that room anyway.

"Why don't you shower while you're in there? I'm sure you reek just as bad as this swamp does," Angel called with no-so playful derision.

Spike rolled his eyes. Quickly, he racked his aching brain for reasons why he shouldn't let dear old bro tramp around the place unsupervised. After all, he didn't have anything to hide.

Not anymore.

He turned on the water and stripped out of his dirty clothes. He stepped into the large shower beneath the icy jet he hoped would clear his head.

His skin prickled as every drop hit him like a dagger. Suddenly, the bright sunlight streaming through the high window was too much. The sound of the running shower and the water hitting his body and the slap of the droplets on the shower floor was deafening.

It was sensory overload in the worst way.

Shaking hands reached for the shampoo on the ledge. He lathered his peroxide-stained locks when another wave of sickness washed over him. This time, he indulged himself by doubling over and waiting for it to pass.

When it did, he finished washing quickly as he could and exited the shower. He only let his eyes gloss over the mirror as he grabbed a towel. He knew what he would invariably see.

His body had all but crumpled into a worn-out husk. He snorted at the inane fragility of the human condition. It had not been long that he adopted his new way of life, but already his form was dilapidated seemingly beyond repair. His tired, emotionless eyes peering out from his pale skin made him look like a zombie. Like he was dead.

_Deader than her, even. . . _

He set his jaw and shook his head. Now wasn't the time for that.

Towel low around his hips, he sauntered back into the bedroom.

The large window was opened in an effort to air out the rank room. Most of the random debris was cleared, shoved into the overflowing trash bag in the corner. All of Spike's overtly filthy clothes were piled on the opposite wall and the closet doors were flung open. On the now-stripped bed was his suitcase, crammed with every clean article of clothing he owned.

Spike took a deep breath. He expected something like this from Angel.

"Now wherever am I going, oh sweet brother of mine?"

Angel tossed him a pair of dark jeans and a shirt.

"I made some calls to an old friend at Sunnydale Oaks."

Rehab. Hardly shocking. Not creative at all. Briefly wondering what connections he made there, Spike considered faking indignation he didn't feel. Rather, he decided to go for broke and say what was truly on his mind.

"Why?"

Angel looked at him, and with unmistakable sincerity stated "You need help."

Spike turned his back. "And what if I don't want it?"

He heard Angel rise to his feet. "It's not about what you want. You obviously don't care much about anything anymore, least of all your life. But for Christ's sake, remember there are some of us who do care what happens to you."

Guilt pressed down on him like a leaden weight on his chest. That was a very low blow. In his head, images of the few people on the fringe of his pathetic life who actually wanted him to continue his miserable existence. Angel. Old Rupes. Jenny. Even the ever-expanding Cordelia with her unborn little tyke.

It was hard to remember that he wasn't alone. In spite of his destructive and wholly pathetic behavior, he still felt responsible. For whatever reason, there were poor saps out there that truly cared about him. In just that moment, with Angel's soft brown eyes pleading with him softly, he made his decision.

Spike sighed and before he could reason with himself sufficiently, he turned and zipped the suitcase closed. He turned and walked calmly out of the door with Angel following from a safe distance.

"'m fairly sure I'll live to regret this."

TBC

**Author's Note: The chapter title is a Cassino song. Highly recommended, but I spared you from having to skim over lyrics. Still, do check it out if you like.**

**Also, please overlook the umm. . . Slight delay between posts. I'll certainly try better.**

**Reviews are good. Reviews are grand.**


	4. Pay No Mind

_Author's Note: _Thanks for the reviews! I just want to take this time to remind anyone reading that the story narration is colored by the POV of whoever is the focus at a given time. This is to say, it's the character in question making these statements, I don't necessarily agree with them.

Also, chapter title is a Beck song.

**Chapter 4: Pay No Mind**

Faith Daniels was sickeningly bored. For what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon alone, she cursed the American justice system's penchant for rehabilitation over incarceration. At least in prison she could have had the potential excitement of a gang war. Or at least a good brawl with an over-zealous prison lesbian.

She apprehensively glanced across the spacious lobby toward the rich bitch Kennedy from the corner of her eye.

'_Never mind. Get enough of that here.'_

The hell Faith currently found herself in was Sunnydale Oaks Rehabilitation Center located just to the east of the painfully small town of Sunnydale. Although at this point, it probably would have felt like a throbbing metropolis.

Faith was only two weeks into treatment following her rather unfortunate D.U.I. incident. For two weeks, she had been cooped up with a score of recovering fuck-ups much like herself and forced to make nice.

Not that she actually went so far as to make pleasantries with anyone.

She grumbled from her position on one of the squishy chairs in the lobby. The late afternoon sun was streaming in through the high windows facing the front of the main building.

'_May as well go for a run.'_

Before leaving her perfectly good life in Los Angeles, Faith had never felt particularly compelled to exercise. She found herself blessed with a body made for hard living. She was curvy in all the right places, but tough where it was necessary. She could hold her own in whatever trouble she usually found herself, and that was good enough for her. Minimal maintenance was required.

But at Sunnydale Oaks, Faith often found disappearing into the forest surrounding the center one of the few ways she could escape from the ever-present, mind-numbing boredom. Racing along the wooded paths at breakneck, muscle-wrenching speed was the only time she could remember what it was to be free.

When she made the mistake of letting her newfound hobby slip to Buffy, one of the counselors, she was annoyingly supportive.

'"_That's great, Faith! It's good to find something that centers you."'_

'_What a crock of shit.'_

She stretched when she stood, pulling her arms over her head so her ample breasts stood out. She could feel Kennedy's eyes on her figure from afar.

'_Oh yeah . . . Still got it.'_

She inwardly winced.

'_Not that I want . . . It.'_

It was really nothing against her fellow twenty-one-year-old patient. Kennedy was certainly a beautiful girl, but chicks had never been up Faith's ally.

And anyway, nympho-Kennedy was one of the most annoying people mistakenly allowed to live. When she wasn't trying to fuck any moderately living object in her general area, she was filling space with constant chatter about her former charmed life.

'_Rich bitch,' _Faith interiorly reiterated.

She made her way up the large wooden staircase toward her room. The second floor hall sported a balcony that ran the length of the lobby it overlooked.

Down below, the entrance doors opened on two of the center's counselors, lost in quiet conversation. The tiny blonde explaining something with small, emphatic gestures to accompany her hushed tones was Buffy Summers. She was a typical do-gooder, young and naïve in Faith's eyes. They were probably around the same age, and Faith got the impression she still had confidence in the innate goodness of humanity and her patients in particular.

'_Poor thing,' _she thought mirthlessly.

But really, the object of far more interest was in the man walking alongside Buffy.

Robin Wood moved with a languidity that did nothing to betray his massive form. With his head slightly bowed, he answered his employee in low dulcet tones that wafted up the rafters.

Faith tried ever-so casually to glance over the railing as she walked the long way to her room. Unconsciously, the speed of her strides slowed. Today, Wood was wearing dark slacks that did impossible wonders for his ass, and a crisp white buttondown with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his strong, deep brown forearms.

'_Tall, dark, and luscious.'_

She thought his deeply set brown eyes flicked up in her direction, but she couldn't be sure.

What she _did _witness was Kennedy's blatant perusal of the walking counselors. Faith could see the little slut's body language change as she sat up straighter, abandoning the issue of _Cosmo _which rested on her lap. Even from the second story, Kennedy's wide-eyed hungry gaze that raked over the twosome was apparent.

Faith had to fight the urge to growl, then rolled her eyes at her own bitter reaction.

'_Looks like she's not the only wanton bitch in heat in this joint.'_

Slapping herself for her pathetic display, she slipped out of her trance and hurried to her room, which she was unfortunate enough to share with the mousey Amy.

Said roommate nearly fell off her bed as she yelped loudly, surprised at Faith's raucous entrance.

'_You'd think she'd be used to it by now . . .'_

Amy played the role of a good cokehead well, even sober. The girl was endlessly twitching, moreso around Faith, who seemed to terrify the young girl.

"Oh -- hey Faith," Amy squeaked, doing a piss-poor job of playing off her frightened outburst.

Faith grunted a reply but made no other acknowledgment of the girl's existence. She kicked the door shut behind her and drew her clingy top over her head. Amy awkwardly looked to the side.

They had been living together since Faith got sent to rehab, but Amy was still unused to her exhibitionist personality.

"So have you heard?," she was talkative today. Must be pretty lonely. "There's a new guy coming today."

"Oh yeah?" Faith questioned, clearly uninterested as she rummaged for a t-shirt in her drawers.

"Yep. Clem overheard Wesley and Buffy talking about it after group this morning," Amy was still not able to look at Faith, who had turned a hand to her jeans as she changed.

Faith snorted as she yanked her gym shorts up. "Well I'll be sure to wish him luck in the hell he's coming into." With that, she grabbed her running shoes and strolled out of the room, leaving Amy to turn forlornly back towards the window.

Sure, Amy was annoying and remarkably uninteresting, but Faith did not truly dislike the girl. But entertaining her in frivolous gossip and giving her the attention she so obviously craved would only encourage clinging. Faith had absolutely no intention of making friends during her forced stay.

It was her prison; a place where she came to serve her time, and she was determined not for it to mean anything more.

'_Besides, if she's really hard-up, Kennedy's always up for companionship.' _She snickered quietly to herself.

When she came to a side exit, she noticed a very nice vintage car pulled up to the front of the drive. Nonchalantly, she walked through the outskirts of the woods nearer to the vehicle.

Two men were standing outside of it, looking withdrawn with their heads bowed low. One, a brunette and quite tall, kept nervously running his hand through his carefully quaffed hair. He stole glances at the other man at regular intervals.

The other looked far and away less conventional than his counterpart. He wore heavy boots and dark clothes, and most noticeably, a long leather duster -- ridiculous in the heat of the California August they were experiencing. A shock of platinum blonde hair, curled and disarrayed, donned his head like a crown. Even with his unkempt locks, he looked every bit the punk rocker his image so obviously screamed.

For whatever reason, Faith's quick observation did not sate her curiosity well enough, and she quietly made her way a bit closer.

The brunette looked decidedly uncomfortable, and whatever he was saying was done so in an almost forced reassuring tone. The expression on his handsome face was pained. He looked guilty.

The punk looked different at a closer range. Faith could now identify his striking facial features more easily. He was pale, with an angular form that followed his body into the curves of his face. He had a gloomy expression which made him look even more haggard. His lifestyle probably made him look older than he actually was.

His hands -- trembling slightly as they plucked a cigarette dangling from his lips -- betrayed him for what he was. His overly thin frame and the dark circles around his eyes completed the look.

He stood quietly while his companion rambled on, squinting against the harsh light of the sun.

Faith had seen enough. Obviously, this was the newcomer Amy had mentioned. She would meet him soon enough, and promptly ignore him just as she did every other person in rehab.

'_Good luck, new guy,' _she thought as she quietly stole off among the trees.

She did glance back once more before they were completely removed from her line of sight.

'_You'll need it.'_

TBC

_Author's Note: _Review, why don't you? ;)


	5. Beauty in a Breakdown

**Chapter 5: Beauty in a Breakdown**

Three sodding months.

Already, Spike was forgetting why he had allowed King Forehead guilt him into this.

Should have asked for details.

Of course, he had an idea of what this travesty of a life decision would entail. Some pseudo-inspirational group sessions. Kumbayas around the fire. Annoyingly upbeat therapists spouting new age shite about mind over matter or some such nonsense.

All of these things he very wrongly _assumed _ would take place in a standard 28-day period. When Wesley Wyndam-Price (one of the counselors) had been forced to explain the longer-lasting benefits of a three month treatment, Spike was forced to grin and bear. The therapist himself did not appear encouraged in the patient's apparent lack of knowledge regarding his voluntary rehabilitation.

Spike groaned and shifted on the small bed in his new quarters. Uncomfortable mattress springs squeaked in old age at the disturbance.

That Wesley prat had delicately tried to explain how the center approached patients in the throes of detox. To this, Spike had to fight the urge to snort. He was miserable, to be sure, but he was fairly sure it would only translate into a few days of physical discomfort.

He had witnessed far worse symptoms before. It was hard to take his own condition seriously when he had personally nursed the worst of the worst.

But that was a dangerous line of thought.

He stood to pace the length of his tiny, starkly painted room. It was suddenly oppressively hot in bed. Luckily for him, he required no roommate. The only room available was a single.

Earlier that night, he had undergone a brief check-up where he was deemed healthy enough to bypass immediate medical attention. Following that, Wesley had paraded his fellow patients out in a flurry of introductions. They looked like a motley crew, and few bypassed curiosity and seemed borderline hostile. Spike found this oddly reassuring.

He was restless. Sleep was completely out of the question, even though he had watched the sun's rays die out hours before.

The ten o'clock curfew had also passed. For Spike, such measures were really unnecessary. He would not leave even if he were told he could. He briefly contemplated how much some of the center's prison-like measures could stand up to how contained he was in his own head.

But then again, the complete absence of distraction was going to make this experience even more difficult. He wryly smiled and reminded himself _'no one goes to rehab for shits and giggles.'_

The funny thing about prolonged self-destruction is how easy it is to get derailed from that purpose. The guilt heaped on by his loved ones probably helped a bit too.

Spike knew he should have done a lot of things differently. Truly, there was no instant he could single out as the moment when he irrevocably fucked his sad life to hell. There was no one event that landed him in his increasingly small cell. There was, however, one person who others probably deemed responsible.

Spike shook his head violently and ceased mid-pace. His hands he brought to hold his aching head, while his eyes frantically batted around the room in a vain attempt to stop his thoughts.

_Can't do this. Not now. Not here. _

His breath hitched in his chest, where his heart began to beat erratically. Panic coursed through him, but this time, there was nowhere to run. He had nothing to distract from his torment. He was completely alone.

He slumped into the wooden chair, still clutching his traitorous head. He quit fighting his panic attack and allowed something much more sinister to slip into its place. At last, he closed his eyes and drifted back into another time.

With every wail, a shudder crawled down his spine. At her every bitter, eerie prophesy, he wracked his brain for what underlying meaning may be lying dormant beneath. For every telling vacant stare, he wished for nothing more than death.

He was beyond terrified.

Drusilla was lying on her side in the middle of their living room, quietly muttering to herself. Her glorious dark hair fanned the carpet beneath her while her clawlike hands dug trenches into her back and arms.

He had been watching diligently over her for two days. At his pleading, she had agreed to get clean again. For his part, he had miscalculated exactly how thoroughly encompassing her bad habits were getting, and in her defense, she was probably high when she said she would quit again.

They had played this game before. After several weeks or even months of prodding, he was typically able to convince her to stop using. Once, he had been able to keep her clean for almost a year. The last time they did this, she had barely lasted three weeks.

They had danced this dance many times.

He quietly picked up the broken bowl pieces that littered the now-stained carpet. She had gone off when he presented her with a bowl of soup and demanded she eat something. He should not have been short with her -- she was fragile, moreso detoxing as she was.

The ceramic pieces were collected and disposed of. As always, he kept an eye on Dru. It looked as though she were drifting into one of her borderline-catatonic states, although she continued her ongoing dialogue with herself.

Spike mopped up canned chicken noodle from the wall and floor as best as he could. It would just be more for Lucinda to deal with. The poor bird was nice enough, but it was clear she was nearing the end of her rope. When she was hired to clean the young couple's apartment, she couldn't have had any idea what she was getting into.

Their posh setting had taken a beating in the three short months they had been living in LA. If not for the work of the maid Lucinda, the place was likely to be condemned.

He felt as though he were forgetting to breathe. Every movement her made revolved around Drusilla. Her state of distress had him tied in anxious knots. He wanted was to take her to a doctor, but when he tried to broach the subject, she would break off into a fit of rage that made him fear for her safety.

"Come to collect, he will. Oh yes, had our fun with his bloody money for too long, we have. He's not happy with us at all." Dru's mutterings had reached an audible level, and much to Spike's chagrin, she was even less lucid than normal.

He stepped forward with caution, but she still appeared stricken when his movements snapped her from her reverie. Her frightened expression shifted back into its wary lines, but this time she looked apologetic, an unusual look for her.

She lifted her arms like a child, and Spike obliged her silent plea by picking her up.

She was tiny, and lighter than normal. He couldn't shake the thought that she was wasting away in his arms at that very moment. He felt helpless, but tried to reassure himself that she couldn't stay in her condition. Detox could only last so long -- a few more days, at the most.

Pressed close to his strong chest, Drusilla picked at the collar of his t-shirt while he slowly carried her back into the bedroom. Eyes shifting, with a nervous, quietly hysterical tone, she launched into another one-sided conversation.

"Course, Miss Edith knows best. Says this could be our moment to shine; shine like the sun does." For once, she looked into Spike's eyes, and whispered conspiringly to him, as though they had been speaking the whole time: "But she does not understand."

He gently laid her down on their bed and had to inwardly rejoice at the direct contact he was receiving, however insane it may be. He took advantage of her inexplicable willingness to accept affection and climbed in next to her, drawing her small frame close to his. He allowed a moment to relish in the feeling of the woman he loved curled against him.

Playing along was really in both of their best interests.

"What doesn't she get now, pet?"

She pushed back from his chest to meet his gaze, deep and penetrating, wide-eyed and wild.

"We're not meant to _shine, _William." She cracked an ironic smile and broke her frightening stare. "Poor boy -- poor sweet boy. Never had a chance, not one -- you were hooked for life."

She gripped his arms tightly, her dark eyes pleading with him to understand her.

"We're meant to _yearn. _To shun the light, to keep to our darkness. We're made to hurt. We're made to bleed."

Spike smoothed her hair back, off her forehead, while he tried to avoid her gaze. To be quite honest, he vastly preferred her fits of rage to her bits of insight into what she thought their _true _natures were. When it felt as though her insane anger and even her hatred were the only feelings he could lay claim to, he at least knew where he stood. When she showed pity towards him, it was far more unsettling. Such instances were rare, and usually only occurred amidst one of her bouts of delirium.

Usually, he just let her talk through her ramblings while he attempted to indulge in the rare joy of holding her.

He knew her behavior was not normal or healthy, even for a drug addict. The woman he first met and fell in love with almost seven years prior had moved far beyond the quirky occasional outburst and lapse of sanity. His beloved Dru had deteriorated into the frightening creature in his arms.

"You should get some sleep, luv." He murmured his words softly in the hope she would forget whatever otherworldly tangent she was on.

Dru just smiled sadly and reached up to stroke his face. "Always been ruined, we have. Damaged… We were the perfect fit."

The finality in her words was starting to scare him. "_Are _the perfect fit. Always will be," he corrected, bringing his lips to her brow.

Confusion marred her beautiful face, then was taken over by anger, which too was fleeting. She seemed to settle for guilt when she gave him a final apologetic glance before she brushed a chaste kiss onto his mouth. With that, she settled into his comforting arms where she remained for a few hours of relative peace before their hellish routine could resume.

Spike's memories carried on through the night like waves, immersing and incapacitating him in anxious fits of guilt, despair, and self-hate.

He had managed to make it to his lumpy bed, where he was huddled against the wall. His chest felt constricted, and the tightness made breathing difficult. With glassy blue eyes, he stared off into space.

The sun was going to rise in an hour, and his life in rehab would start not long after. Elusive sleep escaped him, uncontrollable memories took the place of his horrific dreams.

His abuse of various vices would only momentarily mask his pathetic situation. Without them, he was forced to face his past and his crippling guilt.

He closed his aching eyes and wrapped his arms around his body tighter in an effort to fight off the chill that ran through his bones.

It was going to be a long three months.

TBC

**Author's Note: **Chapter title is from the Frou Frou song "Let Go." And also, had about a half-dozen accidental formatting errors that I believe I corrected now. So sorry, but I believe it's right now.


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